


A better universe

by orphean



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Justice League - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Clark and Bruce are ok, Future Fic, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Old Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:42:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27417469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphean/pseuds/orphean
Summary: Clark hadn’t been to Gotham for years.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 22
Kudos: 82





	A better universe

Clark hadn’t been to Gotham for years.

Over the last few decades, he had spent more time in space than on Earth. His Kryptonian biology was a blessing in many ways, but he didn’t age. He didn’t age like humans aged. If he had been human, he would be wizened and aching now, his hair all white or falling out, his cheeks sunken, his fingers bent with arthritis, his sight failing. But he wasn’t human. He felt as strong as he always had. His temples were white, true, but Clark sometimes wondered if he had somehow forced his body to do that, psychosomatically greying as though that was all aging was.

Thirty years had passed since he realised that Clark Kent needed to die. Not then, but soon. He had been at the _Planet_ for two decades, and when he looked around the office, among the new faces were the old ones, and they were aging. Now the managing editor, Lois was as forceful as ever, but Clark could count each of the wrinkles that hadn’t been there five years ago, ten years ago. He handed in his resignation – _I just think it’s time to retire from this_ , Clark had said, and he knew that Lois would understand – and moved back to Kansas. Well. Officially that’s what he did. The farm was too quiet without Ma and Pa. The world still needed him, so he worked and worked and worked, fighting corruption and crises and the cruelty of nature. On a particularly brutal assault on Earth, he held the tectonic plates together with his fingertips. But even the League was changing. Heroes retired. Heroes died. There were new faces. The new faces grew older. Newer faces, even younger. And – Clark cared about them, he did, but he missed the early days, the days with Diana and Bruce and Hal and Arthur and J’onn, the days where they were all learning together, leaning on each other.

Diana left and returned to Themyscira. Sometimes she’d come to the farm and they’d sit on the roof, drinking hot cocoa and watching the stars. Hal died. (Clark remembered the details, each second burning in the back of his mind, but it was easier to say: Hal died.) Arthur went below and left to lead his kingdom. Clark heard stories about his death, silent and peaceful, his wife and children by his side on his deathbed. He was happy that Arthur lived long and happily, that he was able to build himself a home and family. J’onn was eternal, unchanging. He was unreachable. Same as always. He was the leader of the League now, coordinating initiatives and advocating for the heroes. A well-known face at the United Nations, there were susurrations suggesting that he was in the running to be the next Secretary-General. Whenever anyone mentioned it, J’onn smiled in the Martian way he did and said he was no Hammarskjöld.

And Bruce.

Bruce.

The day Bruce removed his cowl and announced his intention to leave the Justice League, Clark realised two things. He realised that there was nothing left for him in the league these days, no one who would see him as a man and a friend instead of the impossible idol. There was J’onn, but J’onn was distant. Clark also realised, seeing Bruce’s tired eyes and the way he didn’t quite meet Clark’s gaze, that he had missed his chance.

Two weeks after Batman left the League – no public announcement, no party – Superman accepted a position as League ambassador on S’coor. The people of S’coor were kind. Clark had nothing to complain about. Clark’s heart ached for another future.

As the years passed, he found himself less and less Clark Kent and more – not Kal, not quite. But something more alien, something less human. The world changed, and he did not feel like he was changing with it. He was Clark, but a different Clark. Maybe he wasn’t the Superman the world needed.

He would return to Earth for brief bouts when he was needed. He didn’t stay on the scene for longer than necessary, withdrawing when everyone was safe. He went to Kansas. He lay awake in his childhood bed and listened to Bruce’s heartbeat. It was a reassurance, steady and calm. They didn’t talk now. Maybe Bruce was too busy. Maybe he had left Clark behind the way he had left the league. Clark didn’t ask. He didn’t want to know which it was.

Time passed and things changed. Few things were constant. Earth was the centre of the universe. There was always a new evil. Good would win. Bruce’s heart was a beacon. 

One day, Clark had returned to Earth and, floating in the lower stratosphere, he realised he couldn’t hear Bruce’s heart. He didn’t control his descent, his vision clouding and his skin prickling in fear that Bruce was gone. Clark didn’t know what he would do if Bruce had died and he hadn’t been there. He descended, Bruce’s missing heart a phantom in his ears. The seconds stretched. Gotham was so far and then there it was, there it was passed, there was the Manor. The entrance to the cave opened like it always had, like Clark had only popped out for a breath of fresh air. Like Bruce was there, waiting for him with two cups of coffee, one black and one with cream and sugar.

The cave was dark but the computer screens were bright. A heartbeat. Clark stopped. An intruder? He took a step. Another.

‘That’s not your heartbeat.’

If Bruce was surprised to hear Clark’s voice, he made no indication. Clark approached and sat in the empty chair next to Bruce. Bruce leaned his head against his headrest and turned his gaze on Clark. His eyes had grown paler since they last saw each other, a diamond blue that pierced Clark’s heart. His face was gaunt, his cheeks sunken and his eyebrows a bushy salt-and-pepper. He was as beautiful as he had ever been.

‘Pacemaker.’ Bruce touched his chest, over his heart, and twisted his face into a grimace that wasn’t quite a smile. ‘For some reason the doctors still think I should stay alive for a little longer.’

Clark focused on the unfamiliar heartbeat, listening to the steady beat that wasn’t Bruce’s and yet it was. Mechanical, generic. A heartbeat utterly unfitting for the man it kept alive.

‘I was worried.’

‘I didn’t know you remembered it.’ Bruce had turned away, his eyes fixed on the screen in front of him.

‘Of course I did.’ Clark said. He breathed. ‘It was always you, Bruce.’

Bruce didn’t say anything. He didn’t move. Clark waited and waited.

‘We never got it right, did we?’ Bruce spoke softly, addressing the air in front of him. Clark could see the muscles in his jaw working.

‘We never tried.’

‘I was so sure it wouldn’t work.’ Bruce’s voice had changed, an angry edge directed at himself, not Clark. He clenched his hand into a fist, the veins under his skin a harsh blue. ‘I was so sure it couldn’t work that I didn’t think it was worth the risk of trying.’

‘It’s not too late.’ Clark said. 

Bruce turned his chair and looked at Clark, his eyes considering. He looked – perhaps not soft, but the edges hewn off. His face was as sharp and angular as ever, the years if anything accentuating this further, but the way he held his features, the way he looked at Clark: it was open, kind. 

‘Clark, it’s far too late.’

Bruce held out a hand and Clark took it, letting his fingers run over Bruce’s palm before he grasped his wrist. His skin was dry. Clark got out of the chair and dropped to his knees, resting his forehead against Bruce’s knee. Bruce stroked his free hand over Clark’s hair, fingers carding through his curls, lingering at the grey, swooping down to the base of his neck. Bruce’s wrist felt fragile and terrifyingly human. Clark held his hand.

Clark felt the weight in his chest, heavier than Earth itself. He didn’t cry, but he grieved: for what never was; for what was to come. He’d never hold Bruce the way he should have, and one day even his new heart would stop beating. One day, Clark would be truly alone. Bruce was comforting him like a parent would a child, all gentle touches and murmured words.

‘There are many universes, Clark.’ Bruce said, and Clark could hear Batman in his voice, no matter how softly he spoke. ‘The law of averages says we must have made it on at least one of them. For all the ills the multiverse has brought to us, I think that’s a comfort.’

Clark lifted his head. Bruce stroked his face, running his thumb down his jaw, brushing over his chin, barely touching his lower lip.

‘A better universe,’ Clark said.

Bruce looked at him with his old pale eyes, tracing over Clark’s face like he was trying to memorise every inch. Maybe he was grieving, too. 

‘A better universe,’ Bruce agreed.


End file.
